


cream and sugar like an optimist

by decinq



Series: forget love: fall in coffee [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M, POV Multiple, Starbucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 18:58:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4888261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack doesn't actually pick where he wants to live because of proximity to a coffeeshop. Jack would never do that. That would be crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cream and sugar like an optimist

**Author's Note:**

> i really hope i didn't purger myself with this fic. don't call my boss and don't tell her that i hate my job. sbux had nothing to do with this, i swear. please @ sbux, don't sue me #tobeapartner
> 
> for ruba and april and cait, who let me self indulge a ridiculous amount with this.
> 
>  
> 
> all mistakes my own.

The door to the back room swings open, and Shitty yells, “What the fucking fuck, fucking asshole.”

Eric stops mid-count, repeats _15-15-15_ in his head before saying, “Door’s still swingin,’ Shits.”

“Ugh,” Shitty says. He says, “You would not believe this fucking guy, I swear to--” as he rounds the tower of boxes that are nearly as tall as he is, and then asks, “Oh, sorry Bits, were you counting.”

Eric puts the stack of twenties back on the desk, and says, “It’s fine.” He starts counting again, begins again at zero. He counts them into stacks of ten so he can half listen to Shitty rant. “I asked him two times, and he said no twice. Then, of course, when he gets to the bar, Lardo hands him his drink and he says, ‘I’m waiting for a breakfast sandwich,’ and she says, ‘oh, sure, what kind was it?’ And this dick says, ‘I told him bacon,’ which he fucking did not, and then Lardo goes, ‘Hey, B, you got a bacon coming?’ And I walk over from the till and says, ‘sir, I asked if you wanted breakfast and you said you didn’t.” And, you would not fucking believe it, he says, ‘I ordered a bacon sandwich.’” Eric finishes counting the twenties, and he spins in the chair at the desk to face Shitty. He’s sipping at a mug of lukewarm americano that has to be at least an hour old, and then he says, “And Lardo, cause she’s just, like, too chill, goes ‘it’ll just be a sec for the sandwich, sir.’ And I say, ‘sorry dude, I didn’t charge you for it, do you wanna come back around and I’ll ring it through?’ And he says, ‘it’s not my fault you didn’t ring it up.’ Like? Fucking dick. So I say, ‘Okay...But you still need to pay for the things you want to buy,’ like it’s in my job to explain Capitalism to this fucker, right? Like I’m not already slinging Imperialist coffee at the cost of my _soul_.”

“Did he pay for the sandwich?” Eric asks. He counts all the separate stacks of bills, and marks the total on the deposit slip.

“No, the asshole. He just starts going nutso, as if I even give a shit about his fucking breakfast. God,” he sighs, and then drops his mug back onto the desk by Bitty’s elbow. “Sorry for interrupting your count.”

Eric waves his hand. “It’s fine,” he says. “When I’m back you can go for your break.”

“‘Swasome,” Shitty says.

**  
**  
  
  
  
  


 

 

It’s not that Eric doesn’t love his job, because he does. Starbucks has benefit coverage and no one cares that he’s gay, and he’s damn good at it. The company reimburses his tuition and he gets all the caffeine he could ever need. (Probably too much caffeine, actually, if his blood pressure is anything to go by.) But sometimes, he’s fucking tired. Waking up at 4 A.M. for, like, three years straight does something to one’s soul. And even when class is on and he has night shifts more often than not, no one wants to be making coffees for a bunch of flirting students at 10 P.M. on a Sunday night. Not when the newest episode of Brooklyn Nine-Nine is eating a hole in one’s PVR.

Bitty doesn’t hate it. It’s a good job to have. It’s an okay place to work even when Jodie over orders lemonade and he has to put away forty cases of it. What the fuck she thinks they’re going to do with forty cases of lemonade is beyond him, because summer is basically over. Being all out of grande hot cups is also something that Jodie doesn’t seem to care about, and it’s not like Eric has a car, he can’t just call down to Garden City and get them to lend them half a box.

If he really hated it, he wouldn’t work there anymore. The one really good thing about working for Starbucks is that it kind of makes it easy to find other jobs, after. It’s fast pace and there’s lots to memorize, and the customer service training is pretty extensive. He’s had other jobs, and Starbucks has been the most life changing out of all of them.

If he really hated it, he wouldn’t have taken the offer of promotion a year back. Being a supervisor doesn’t feel all that different from being a barista, but now he has keys and codes and way more responsibilities. The raise wasn’t even really worth it, it’s only a dollar more an hour. But he figures, at the very least, it’s good practice. He’s not sure what the hell his degree will get him when he’s done, but he can at least say that he spent four years working his ass off, was an invaluable member of a really successful team.

And it’s crazy, sure, but it’s fun. Some of the people he gets to work with are the best people he’s met in his life. He doesn’t know who or where he’d be, without some of them.

So it’s not like he hates it. But when he spends the first part of the morning trying to solve the cup problem while also trying to keep Shitty and Lardo from making googly eyes at each other for the entire shift, texts Jodie to update her on how the day went, and then has the new kid say, “Uhm, Eric? I think we’re out of brown sugar. There’s none at the condiment stand.”

“Did you check the cupboard on the left? Remember? We went over how to stock it yesterday.”

“Oh,” Chris says. “Right, yeah. You’re right.”

**  
**  
  
  


 

 

 

“Okay, so Hot Dad Dave was here this morning,” Lardo says. “And you wanna know what he says?”

“Can I grab a coffee first, or is this Hot Dad Dave gossip going to become irrelevant in the next three minutes?” Lardo rolls her eyes, but uncaps her Sharpie.

“Mocha?” She asks. Eric nods.

She puts his drink on the bar, and Shitty comes out from the back room. “Bits, babe, good morning.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” Eric says.

“It’s 6 A.M.,” Shitty says. “Settle down.”

He reads the marking on Eric’s cup and says, “Ah yes, your colonial mocha.”

“Stop,” Eric says, groaning. “I know, I know. The Spanish invade the Aztecs, find their cocoa, the Dutch discover that they can make fake chocolate, Hershey is a Capitalist demon, and Starbucks only has one roast of coffee that’s certified Fair Trade.”

“I taught you so well, young grasshopper,” Shitty says.

Eric says, “I’m your boss.”

“Barely,” Shitty says.

Eric rolls his eyes. “Whatever, you work in the Capitalist hellscape just like I do, you lunatic.”

Shitty smiles at him, and then says, “Did Lardo tell you about Hot Dad Dave?”

**  
**  
  


* * *

 

**  
**  


Jack pulls up outside the address his relator emailed him twenty minutes early. His mom left yesterday, and he’s still not sure how confident he feels navigating without her. Which is how he ends up being twenty minutes early to a meeting his mom doesn’t know about. She liked the place down by the water, but he’s honestly not a fan of all the stainless steel. He likes modernism in theory, but he wants to live in a home, not like some condo that looks like it’s a stand in for Modern Housekeeping or what the fuck ever.

Just as well, he thinks. He liked the photos that he saw on the website, but there hadn’t been much about the neighbourhood. It’s not far from Brown, which is a plus, but other than that it mostly just looks like restaurant fronts and little boutiques. He leaves his rental car outside the building they’re going to be looking at, and walks down the block.

He’s wearing his baseball cap down over his eyes, and he doesn’t get recognized much unless he’s in Montreal or at Samwell, and he knows that no one in Providence is going to be expecting to see him, which usually falls in his favour.

He slips into a Starbucks on the corner, and there’s only one person in line. When he gets to the front of the line, a guy a bit shorter than Jack with a moustache and a ponytail says, “Hey, how’s it goin’?” When he looks up from the cup he was marking, his eyes bug wide. “Oh. Hey. Uh. You’re--”

“Yeah,” Jack says.

The barista nods, clears his throat. “Right. Right. So. You’re here, in Providence. That’s weird.”

“Oh my God,” the barista at the bar says, under his breath, exasberated.

Jack is tempted to smile in his direction, but instead he says, “I guess.”

Ponytail guy is about to start talking again when the guy at the bar says, “Can I get something started for you? He’s just going to let his jaw hang there if he tries to talk.”

“Um,” Jack says. He meets the guy’s eyes, and they’re big and brown. He has freckles scattered across his nose, and his nametag says Eric. There’s a little drawing of a smiley face beside it. He’s small, sure, but he’s got broad enough shoulders, strong forearms and respectable upper arms that are visible where the sleeve of his polo ends. Jack smiles and says, “An Americano?”

He nods at Jack and says, “Grande size?”

Jack shakes his head. “Just a tall, I think.”

“Sure thing,” he says. “Do you need room for milk or cream?”

Jack shakes his head. “Black is good.”

He makes to pull out his wallet and the guy --Eric-- waves his hand at Jack. “It’s on me, seriously. He’s being a weirdo,” he points to Ponytail, who is watching the two of them with fascination, or awe, or something else entirely that Jack can’t pin down. “Plus, like, we all love you. You guys always the Bears’ asses, which would be a crime if we weren’t just in awe of watching you play.”

“Oh,” Jack says. “You go to Brown?”

The guy nods, and turns around as he fills Jack’s cup with hot water. He shoves his thumb in the direction of Ponytail and says, “Him too.”

Jack, for a lack of anything else to say, says, “Cool.”

“What’re you doing here, though? Season’s over, isn’t it?” He hands the coffee to Jack, and Jack tries not to notice how soft his hands are when their fingers touch.

Jack nods, because it is. They fell out of the playoffs in the second round. Brown didn’t do much better, but. “Yeah,” Jack says. “I have a...a meeting. Up the street.”

“Huh,” Eric says. “Well I hope it goes well.” He smiles and Jack smiles back at him as he snaps the lid onto his coffee.

“Thanks,” Jack says.

“You too,” he says. “Take care.”

When Jack pushes the door open, Ponytail says, “Holy shit, Bits! You just flirted with Jack Zimmermann.”

**  
**  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Jack likes the apartment when he walks through it. He can picture a rug and a couch in the living room, imagines bookshelves on the south wall. There are huge windows in the bedroom, the walls all deep-red brick. There are high ceilings and bamboo floors and it’s nice. He asks his relator, “Good neighbourhood?”

She says, “It’s mostly commercial spaces, but it’s not far from Brown. This area is mostly professors and grad students. Not a lot of rowdy undergrads or anything.

Jack nods. “When I was walking over, it seemed nice. There’s a Starbucks.”

She nods. “I’ve had lunch at the sandwich place two blocks down. It’s good. There’s a Trader Joe’s not too far from here, if that’s of interest to you.”

Jack ask, “Do you have papers for it?”

**  
**  
  


 

 

 

 

Jack doesn't actually pick where he wants to live because of proximity to a coffeeshop. Jack would never do that. That would be crazy.

**  
**  
  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

The week before school starts, Zimmermann comes back into the store. Eric isn’t there when he first comes in, but Shitty texts him about it.

_he was sad that u werent here_

__

_He was not,_ Eric says.

_he was!!! said “wheres my bitty mcflirt flirt”_

Eric doesn’t respond, but not a minute later Shitty says, _ok he didn’t say that. but he chirped me like crazy! said, “think ull be able to take my order this time?”_

Eric responds with a string of chick emojis, but leaves it at that.

**  
**  
  
  


 

 

 

The next morning, when Eric is counting how many bottles of vanilla syrup they have on hand, Zimmermann comes back in. Eric turns to the door to say, “Good morning,” but it falls short. It’s still dark out, and Zimmermann looks exhausted. “You’re back,” Eric says.

Zimmermann makes a throaty noise as he rubs a hand over his eyes. “It’s so early,” he says.

“I know,” Eric says. “And you’re back.”

He nods, and then smiles kind of shyly. “I uh, I signed with the Falconers, so I uh. I live here now.”

“Oh,” Eric says. “I didn’t know. Congratulations.”

Zimmermann shakes his head a bit, “No one does. I think they’re announcing today. Maybe tomorrow. I don’t know.”

“That’s pretty late, isn’t it? Pre season starts soon, right?”

He shrugs. “I don’t pretend why they do anything the way they do.”

Eric smiles, nods. “Okay, so you’re a Falc now. That’s cool. I’m sure it’s not what anyone was expecting. I was expecting the Habs, if anything. I’m surprised”

Zimmermann smiles. “Maybe I’m full of surprises,” he says.

“Maybe you are,” Eric says. He smiles, and asks, “Americano again?”

“You remembered.”

“Uh, yeah, I mean, we tend to remember when very cool famous people come in. It becomes a part of the story. What you order is basically just as important as what you were like.”

“Really?” Zimmermann asks.

Eric shrugs. “Makes the story credible. Chris Evans came in here once and ordered a chocolate smoothie with an extra banana and six scoops of protein.”

Zimmermann lets out a laugh. “Was he nice?”

“Sure,” Eric shrugs again. He moves to pull the shots, and says, “Do you know your jersey number yet?”

Zimmermann shakes his head. “I wanted to use my dad’s, but 1 is the goalie’s number so.”

“You have a back up?”

“It’s the only one I was really serious about. I guess I could go for 90, but it doesn’t feel right.”

“I was always number 15,” Eric says. “Or 51.”

“Why?”

Eric shrugs. “It was my dad’s football number.”

“Great minds think alike,” Zimmermann says.

“Why’re you up so early?” Eric asks. He brings Zimmermann’s americano over to where he’s still standing at the till.

“I moved yesterday,” he says. “I have to go to my storage locker and get basically everything I own, and I need to go to Ikea because, as I just learned this morning, I don’t own any cups.”

“Oh,” Eric says. “Do you live far from here?”

Zimmermann shakes his head. “A few buildings over.” Zimmermann reaches for his back pocket, and Eric waves him off again.

“Coffee is the least I can do to welcome you to the neighbourhood,” Eric says.

“If you’re sure,” he says, his cheeks colouring just a bit. Eric’s totally fucked. The last thing he needs it to be thinking about the pink tinge to a customer’s cheekbones. As if this job isn’t torture enough. “I guess I’ll be seeing a lot of you.”

Eric smiles. “You betcha.”

Zimmermann leaves, and then Lardo comes through the swinging door. As soon as Zimmermann is out the door, she says, “I’m telling Shitty. You’ve got moves, Bits.”

Eric rolls his eyes. “You’re delusional. He’s famous. And not gay.”

She shakes her head. “You shouldn’t assume,” she says. “Makes you look like an ass.”

“Did you see him?” Eric asks. “There’s literally no way.”

“You mean did I see him making eyes at you and laughing at all your flirty jokes?”

“Ugh,” Eric says. “Stay on till or you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me,” she says. He sticks his tongue out at her as he walks backwards through the swinging door. He has to stomp back onto the floor to recount the bottles vanilla syrup, and Lardo smirks at him the whole time.

**  
**  


 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Jack wakes up just after 9. He needs to keep unpacking, but he’s tired and sore. He should go for a run, or to the gym, do something. Just because he has nothing to do until next week doesn’t mean he should do _nothing_.  He pulls on running shorts and his SMH hoodie, tucks his Blue Jays hat onto his head before pocketing his keys and wallet.

When he opens the glass door, there’s a line from the till that seems like it’s a mile long. He thinks about not waiting, but he catches a glimpse of Eric’s blonde hair and decides to stick it out. He worries for a second if that’s creepy, but he doesn’t think so. Eric seems nice, and like he’s genuinely interested in talking to Jack. That might just be him doing his job, but he can tell that Eric’s from somewhere farther south than Massachusetts, and maybe he’s just incredibly hospitable. Whatever. Jack will just pay for his coffee and go. He’s not some weird barista stalker. Jesus.

Maybe his heart rate doesn’t need the extra kick.

**  
**  


The line-up actually moves faster than he was expecting, and it only takes a few minutes before Eric’s head is popping up from behind the pastry case and says, “Hey man, what can I do you for?”

Jack has a pit in his stomach and he asks, “What kind of smoothies do you have?”

“We’ve got three,” he says. “They all have two-percent, protein and a banana. You can pick from strawberry, orange-mango, or chocolate.”

“What’s your favourite?” Jack asks. He knows he’s holding up the line, but he can’t help it, wants to know anything about the guy and will jump at the opportunity.

“I like half strawberry, half orange mango.”

“Okay,” Jack says. “I’ll do that.”

“They only come in one size,” Eric says.

“That’s cool,” Jack says.

Eric marks a plastic cup and then says, “Chris is gonna ring you through on that till in just a second, okay?”

Jack nods, and shuffles forward. Eric looks to the woman behind Jack and says, “Hi there.” Jack’s not sure how he does it, but Eric commands attention from the whole room. He looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing, exudes confidence that Jack wishes he had.

A kid with braces rings Jack through, and he hands over a ten dollar bill for the smoothie. When he gets four-something back in change, he drops it into the tip jar. “Oh, thanks man,” the kid says. Jack smiles meekly but doesn’t say anything else. It’s the least he can do after Eric gave him his coffees for free more than once. He doesn’t want to seem like he’s taking advantage.

**  
**  


When he gets his smoothie at the end of the bar a few minutes later, he takes a sip and it’s good. It was a good suggestion, and he takes another long pull through the straw before saying, “Thank you,” to the girl on bar.

“Thank you,” she says.

It’s not until he’s back out on the street that he sees the side of the cup, where it says _Jacques_ with a smiley face beside it. Jack does his best not to blush while standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Christ, he should go for run.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Eric gets thrown onto closes when school starts back up. Shitty graduated in the spring, but he’s taking a year off before applying to grad schools, and he was all too happy to pick up the mid-day slack that Eric’s new availability created.

He gets out of class at 1, and once he gets back to his dorm, he changes and stuffs his French book into his backpack before tucking his pant leg into his sock and heading down to his bike. He rides to work, and makes it in ten minutes, which isn’t his fastest time, but not his slowest either. His goal is seven, and he hopes to get there before the first snowfall.

He hangs up his helmet and bag and gets changed in the back room when he gets there, and then orders his chai latte before taking a seat at the end of the bar. He has forty minutes until his shift starts, and he wants to get some of his readings done. He’s never very successful at getting work done when he sits at the bar, ends up talking to whoever is working or customers. He tries to turn off his work brain when he’s not on the clock, but it doesn’t always work. Plus, his regulars are his friends, they’ve known him since he was 18 and new to Rhode Island. They’re important to him, he sees them basically everyday; it’s the least he can do to stop and chat with them even if he’s not getting paid for it.

He starts up his _study_ playlist on his phone before putting his headphones in, and it doesn’t take long for him to get immersed in the readings. Eventually, Shitty gets caught up on the bar drinks when the line dies down. He tries not to bother Eric when he’s studying, is usually pretty good at respecting how little time Eric actually has for it. But he waves his hand in Eric’s line of vision, and Eric pulls out his headphones.

Before Eric can say, “What?” Shitty whispers, “Loverboy’s in line, he’s been making eyes at you.”

“Who is lov--” Eric looks up and catches Zimmermann looking away quickly. “Oh. Uh. Don’t call him that.”

“Why?” Shitty says.”It’s true.”

“It’s rude.”

Shitty rolls his eyes, and then says, “Whatever you say, boss.”

Eric goes back to his book, but doesn’t put his headphones back in. He tries to concentrate, but he can hear when Zimmermann orders even if he can’t actually make out the words. He pays and walks around the bar, and it takes about a minute, but he eventually comes to stand by Eric’s spot at the end of the counter.

Eric looks up and says, “Hey.”

“Hey,” he says, not really looking at Eric. “What’re you reading.”

Eric flips the cover so Zimmermann can see it. “It’s for school.”

“You’re reading Petit Prince for school?”

“I’m in intermediate French,” Eric elaborates.

He nods, then says, “My name is actually spelt the English way. But Jacques was a nice touch. I sent a photo to my dad.”

Eric says, “Woah,” and then smiles. “That’s uh. Dang.”

 

Zimmermann smiles. “If you tell me that you’re a Pens fan I might cry,” he says.

Eric smirks at him. “What? Falcs or bust? There are a good handful of Bruins fans around here, you should know.”

“Ugh,” he says. “That’d be worse.”

“I grew up watching the Hawks,” Eric says. “Not much of a hockey fan base where I’m from.”

“Where are you from?” Zimmermann asks.

Shitty says, “Here’s your decaf, dude.”

“Americano?” Zimmermann asks, and Shitty nods.

“I’m from Georgia,” Eric says, when Shitty goes back to working rather than making face at Eric from behind Zimmermann’s head.

Zimmermann nods. “I never got your name,” he says, and he sounds kind of sheepish.

“Oh,” Eric starts, soft, and Zimmermann says, “Your name tag said _Eric_ the first time, but I read somewhere about servers using fake names to prevent, like, stalkers or whatever. I didn’t want to assume.”

“It’s Eric,” Eric says. “Eric Bittle.”

“Bits,” Zimmermann says under his breath. “That’s what he called you,” he says, pointing to Shitty. “Makes sense.”

“Do you have a nickname?” Eric asks, smirking.

Zimmermann shakes his head. “Just Jack. One of my roommates at school tried to call me Jay Z, but it never stuck.”

Shitty groans. “That is a world class nickname,” he says.

Zimmermann shrugs.

“Well,” Eric says. “I have to get to work, but it was nice talking to you.”

Zimmermann nods, and steps back so Eric can hop down from the bar stool.

“It was nice to meet you, Eric.”

“Nuh-uh,” Shitty says. “We’re all buds now, you definitely get to call him Bitty now.”

“Bitty,” Jack repeats. “Okay. It was nice to meet you, Bitty.”

Eric grins. “It was nice to meet you too, Jack,” he says, and Jack’s answering smile is huge.

**  
**  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

It takes a solid month, and it’s not until Jack scores his first NHL goal in the first game of the preseason, but Eric finally convinces Jack to get a Starbucks card. “You get points,” he explains for the fifteenth time. “And the points get you free stuff.”

“I get what you’re saying,” Jack says from his spot at the end of the bar. Bittle is making cappuccino while Jack sips at his mug full of decaf americano. “I just don’t really care about the money.”

“There’s a phone app,” Eric says. He’s told Jack as much before. “C’mon,” he whines. “It’s the principle of the matter.”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Fine. Do it for me.”

“Do it for you?” Eric asks.

Jack nods. “Download it for me or whatever.”

“You need a card first,” Eric says. “Five bucks minimum to activate it.”

Jack shakes his head. “Robbery.”

Eric smiles. “I give you all your coffees for free,” he says.

“All the more reason for me to avoid paying this company any money at all.” Eric rolls his eyes and grins, and Jack says, “Won’t you get in trouble eventually?”

Eric shrugs. “I mean, I’m the boss right now.”

“You are?”

“Well, yeah. I’m a supervisor.”

“And you go to school full time?”

Eric shrugs. “I gotta pay to live somehow,” he says. “It’s easy work, really.”

“Even if you give away all these coffees for free?”

Eric laughs. “Just because I gotta work doesn’t mean I have to love it,” he says. He smirks and leans his hands on the counter to lean forward towards Jack. “I’m trying to bring the company down from the inside,” he whispers.

“By giving me one free coffee at a time?” Jack whispers back.

“You got it.” Eric says. “Hockey star with brains to boot? Knew you went to college for a reason.”

**  
**  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

Jack learns a lot of things about Eric in the next couple months. That he’s an only child, that he used to figure skate, played hockey until his had a few nasty concussions. He’s doing a joint major in American Studies and Communications. He really wants to get a dog when he moves off campus. He doesn’t think he’ll move home when he graduates, but he’s not sure where to go. He tells all of this to Jack like they aren’t secrets, like maybe they’re friends, like he trusts Jack.

Jack doesn’t tell Eric much of anything, talks about hockey, and a bit about school. When Rans and Holster come up to watch a game and stay with him, Jack introduces them, but Eric is casual and polite and seems normal except that he seems quieter than usual. But when he smiles, his eyes curve into crescents.

 

Ransom says, "You're a pro. What's your favourite drink?"

 

Eric makes them all pumpkin spice lattes, draws a smiley face on the side of Jack's cup. When Jack takes a sip, it's not what he would have expected, but it's really good. Makes him feel cozy and warm, and it's just sweet enough. He's surprised. He never would have ordered it himself, but he's happy he tried it anyway.

**  
**  
  
  


 

 

 

Eric drinks his coffee with half a pack of sugar and a lot of milk. Jack cringes, and Eric rolls his eyes.

“We do coffee tastings all the time,” he explains. “I drink enough murky, black coffee a week doing those.”

“My mom always said that coffee should be the same colour as chocolate. That they go together like a pair.”

“Not all coffee is good with chocolate,” Eric says. “Some coffees that have high acidity do better with berries or citrus foods. Things with lemon or blueberries are usually safe.”

“How do you have all that space in your brain for this stuff?” Jack asks.

“I don’t know,” Eric shrugs. “I feel like I was born with all this Starbucks knowledge already in there, sometimes.”

“But if you’re an expert, why the milk and sugar?”

“Jack,” Eric says. His smile is soft, and he holds Jack’s eyes for a moment before he says, “I’m an optimist. Coffee’s the same. Doesn’t have to be bitter and sharp if you don’t want it to be.”

**  
**  
  


 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Jack comes in when Bittle is trying to close up, a Thursday in November. It’s cold out, and he just wants to close, wants to clock out, and get back to his dorm and crawl into bed.

When he was on his last break, the Falc’s were down by one.

There’s no one else in the store, and Chris is doing dishes in the back. Jack sits at the bar and folds his arms, rests his forehead on them. Eric can’t tell what his face looks like when he’s face down on the counter, so he says, “Bad night?”

Jack’s head moves in what Eric guesses in a nod, and says, “Me too.”

Jack looks up then, his brow furrowed. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Eric says. “It’s fine.”

Jack tilts his head, and says, slowly, “You can tell me if you want to.”

Eric shakes his head. “Asshole customer. It’s over, it’s fine. I just want today to be done, you know?”

“I do,” Jack says, nodding. He bends his arm, rests his elbow on the counter and his cheek in his hand.

“Caps won?” Eric asks.

“Yeah,” Jack says.

“Sorry,” Eric says. He wipes at the counter even though it’s clean.

Jack makes a “meh” sound. “Just want the day to be done,” he repeats.

“You want a coffee?” Eric asks.

Jack shakes his head. “Not really. Is that okay? I just didn’t want to sit in the quiet of my apartment.”

“Yeah,” Eric says. “Of course it’s okay. Anytime.”

It’s quiet for a minute. A girl in a Brown sweatshirt comes up to the till, and Eric makes her green tea latte. When she goes to leave, Jack says, “So do you get, like, any days off?”

Eric says, “They’re not regular, or like, not set. And usually I’m in class for at least part of them. Why?”

“You work too hard,” Jack says.

Eric shrugs. “It’s what I know.”

“Do you get to relax a little?”

“I was planning to catch up on my PVR when I get home. Sleep in tomorrow. I don’t have class until noon.”

“I thought you lived in a dorm,” Jack says, slow, like he could be wrong.

“I do,” Eric says. “It’s a quad, so there’s like, four of us? Two bathrooms and four bedrooms. We share a kitchen and a livingroom.”

“Like an apartment,” Jack says.

“Like an apartment,” Eric repeats. After a beat, he asks, “Do you get days off?”

“Sometimes,” Jack says. “I have an optional skate on Monday. Thought I might skip it if I could figure out something to do.”

Eric blurts out, “I’m off Monday.”

A smile spreads across Jack’s face, so Eric must have said the right thing. “Yeah?”

“I have class from 1-3, but I’m free before or after? I have a seminar at 7, but…”

“Do you want to do something with me? Before you go to class?” Jack asks. He seems nervous to Eric, talking too fast and cheeks just a little bit pink. Eric must spend a second too long looking at Jack, because Jack says, “You don’t have to, I’m sure you don’t want to hang out with your weird custo--”

“I’m all yours,” Eric says, smiling. “I have to be back on campus by, like, 12:45, is that okay?” Jack nods and Eric asks, “Did you have something in mind?”

Jack shakes his head. “I don’t know, do you want to get coffee or something?”

Eric bites at the insides of his lips, tries to keep his smile down. “Coffee?” He asks. “Really?”

“I--” Jack sputters. “I didn’t even think about--”

“I’m kidding,” Eric says. “Coffee’s fine, but maybe not here? There’s a nice place down by the water, if you want to go there? I know the weather isn’t great but they do good lunch, and it’s family owned?”

“Sure,” Jack says, smiling. “Coffee sounds good.”

“Okay,” Eric says, and smiles back.

“It’s a date,” Jack says.

**  
**  
  
  
  
  



End file.
